Choices: Downshifting on the Upgrades
by livengoo
Summary: Jack and Sam made a choice. Now they figure out where to go from there. Little language, few potential spoilers for Upgrades.


Title: Choices: Downshifting on the Upgrade Writer: Livengoo  
Rating: PG  
Spoilers for Upgrades  
Summary: Sam and Jack tie up some loose ends.  
Disclaimer: The characters mentioned in this story are the property of Showtime and Gekko Film Corp. The Stargate, SG-I, the Goa'uld and all other characters who have appeared in the series STARGATE SG-1 together with the names, titles and backstory are the sole copyright property of MGM-UA Worldwide Television, Gekko Film Corp, Glassner/Wright Double Secret Productions and Stargate SG-I Prod. Ltd. Partnership. The characters I return after borrowing, intact and no harm done.

Winter was a shitty time for a crisis of conscience. Jack O'Neill shivered as he turned off the car engine. Nights never seemed as dark as when it was snowing, the cold as biting as when the wind blew. The take out food didn't smell as good as he'd hoped and the beer in the front seat was icy. Just the thing for a night like this he thought, glaring at the dark windows of his house.

Twenty-seven steps to the front door. That's all it would take and he'd be inside, warm and toasty in the quiet of his own house. Maybe turn on hockey, make a noise, turn on all the lights and pretend that he wasn't the only thing moving in the damn the place. He swallowed hard and licked his lips, his own tongue soft and warm against the flesh. And he didn't open the car door or walk the twenty-seven steps. He turned on the engine again and backed out fast, rear end skidding on the snowy street as he roared off before he could regain what little sense he had left.

He'd never counted the steps to Carter's front door. She hadn't shoveled the snow away, just marching through it instead. He tried to walk in the dents of her footsteps but it still got into his boots, chilling his feet. The lights from her windows glowed warm amber on the snow-shrouded shrubs as he stood stamping his feet, pressing the bell by her front door.

The spyhole momentarily darkened and he leaned down to look back into it. "Carter? It's me. It's fucking freezing out here!"

"Sir?" The door swung back and her clear, baffled voice greeted him. "What are you doing here?"

"Freezing."

"You said that." She pushed the storm door open and backed up to let him in, hands fluttering at him in a very un-Carterish way. Or it seemed like that until he realized she was trying to bat the snow falling off him back onto the newspapers laid out by the door. "What are you doing here, sir?"

"Brought you some beer."

She took the offering, gave him a quizzical look, but carried the booze off docilely enough. Jack breathed a quick sigh of relief and shucked his jacket, shaking it over the papers before hanging it on her coat tree. He called "I've got some carryout too!"

"Chinese?" She leaned back around the corner of her kitchen.

"Thai." He waggled the bag at her. Her grin lit up the hall, crinkling her blue eyes. "Whoa! Goodbye, Budget Gourmet. To what do I owe the honor?"

He thought fast. "My cable's off. Must have forgotten to pay the bill."

The look she shot him said General Carter didn't raise any fools, but she kept quiet. There were times he could kiss the earth and thank God that he had 'colonel' in front of his name. An instant later he sobered, because 'colonel' in front of his name was the problem, after all. He took the beer she handed him, rolling the cold glass between his palms. "So. Friday night. What've you got planned?"

"Now? Thai food and . . ." She shrugged with her whole body, eyeing him.

Jack stared back at her, oddly saddened by the gesture. He felt his shoulders sag and leaned heavily on the kitchen island and, for once, just said what he thought. "Jesus, Sam. How the hell did we let this happen?"

"Umm . . ." She combed her fingers through her hair in a nervous gesture that he seldom saw in the field. The microwave dinged and she turned away, relief on her face. "This smells great."

"Right. Right." He took a long sip of beer.

Sam was concentrating fiercely on getting precisely the right number of shrimp and vegetables on each plate, blonde hair gleaming in the harsh lights that hung over the butcher block. "So. You're here to subject me to hockey?"

The question was a thin attempt at conversation. He heard the strain in her voice, subtle but there. He responded in kind. "Gotta love ESPN. Which side you rooting for?"

She stood still, looking down at the plates, spoon still held dripping sauce over the carton. When she looked up her face was solemn, eyes huge and dark. "You don't know who's playing, do you?"

He blinked, smile fading off his face. Sighed and took another sip of beer. "I have no idea. But we can't keep ignoring this."

Her mouth widened, lips thinned in what was not a smile and not a frown but something in between. When she spoke her voice was so soft he could barely hear the words. "I don't even know what 'this' is. We're dancing around . . . what? I don't know what it is, do you?"

He looked down at his feet, scuffing a toe against the tiles of the floor then forced himself to look back up at her. "A kiss?"

She snorted but kept her mouth shut, like she always did. Perfect, Major-Carter-manners just like always. He read the answer in her silence and sighed again. "Get yourself a beer, Sam."

"I've got tea." She lifted a cup.

Jack snorted this time. "Come on. I'm already outclassed here, the least you can do is take a minor handicap."

Sam opened her mouth, closed it. Her lips thinned and when she spoke the words sounded like she was forcing them out. "Why do you do that? I just hate it when you do that, play stupid like that."

"Jesus, Sam! I'm no idiot but we both know I'm way outclassed on this team." He rolled his eyes and saluted her with his beer. "I'm honest enough to admit it. Quit yanking my chain and just get a drink, will you?"

Face pale but flushed across the cheekbones, she turned and grabbed a bottle of wine, pouring a glass. Her motions were jerky as she lifted it, and gulped instead of taking a sip. "There. Happy? Does that make us equals at last?"

"No." Jack sighed, bravado sliding out of his reach again and quietly took his plate to the living room. "We need to talk, Sam."

The quiet held while she followed him into the living room, settling gingerly at the opposite end of the couch from him. She picked up the TV remote and fiddled with it, turning the set on, muting it, flipping through channels. "So. Friday night and you're here. What did you have planned?"

He wanted to lob it off, tell her some funny story and pretend he'd just happened by. Instead, he told her the truth. "Just about what you think. I mean, yeah, of course . . ." Jack swilled the rest of his beer and went to get another. He brought back the wine bottle and a couple spare bottles of beer. "You know you drink cheap wine?"

She glared. "You drink cheap beer."

He held the bottles in front of him like a shield. "I'm not judging you. Just saying."

The tension held for another moment then she relaxed, grinning sourly. "I get my challenges at work, Sir. I don't need it from my wine."

"Huh." He dropped heavily onto the couch, putting the bottles on the table. "Tell me something."

"Whaat?" She drawled the word, like everyone did who'd worked with Daniel Jackson. The intonation made him smile.

"If we did . . . I mean, if we did it - together, you know?"

She nodded, eyebrow arched in elegant derision. "If we had sexual intercourse?"

He wrinkled his nose. "You're so damn technical. If we screwed would you call me 'sir' when you came?"

Her face went blank, eyes wide. Then flushed bright pink. Jack watched in alarm as she started to tremble, then shake. He jumped as a sudden peal of laughter rang out. Sam had gone red, leaning over her knees and whooping with laughter. He boggled. "It wasn't that funny!"

"No, I mean, yes, . . ." She was gasping for air, lying on her side. "'Faster, Sir! Harder, harder! Go, Colonel, go!'"

His face went slack as the image shaped itself in his mind. "Couldn't you at least have said, 'fire in the hole, sir!'?"

She whooped again, arms wrapped around her ribs. "Stop it! Oh, it hurts!"

"I mean, a man's got his pride, you know?"

"'Fire in the hole'? Sir, that's you and Teal'c and Mexican take-out!" She spluttered. "God, I don't think I can ever look at your butt again."

"You look at my butt?" Jack sat up straight, absurdly pleased.

Sam was calming down, little snickers still erupting but losing that red color of a real laughing jag. "No, of course I don't. That'd be against regulations."

He focused on decapitating another bottle of beer. "I look at yours."

"I know." The laughter was gone from her voice now. She shared a look of weary desire and old frustration with him. "Sometimes I envy Thera. Things were so easy for her."

Jack looked down, studying the way her lamps reflected from the brown glass bottle in his hands. "I love you."

"I love you too, Sir." He looked up, meeting her eyes. She was smiling, a wan but genuine smile. "But I'm not really sure what that means."

He leaned back, resting his beer between his thighs and thought about it. "When I was growing up, I knew I'd find a girl, fall in love, get married. The whole nine yards, you know? And that's exactly how it happened, nice and tidy."

Sam had turned the TV off and settled back, curled up on the couch, sipping her wine. "When I was growing up, Dad wanted me to be the best. I'd go to space. I'd see wonders and maybe answer the questions that kept me awake at night. I guess I thought I'd get married some day, have kids . . ."

"It was the center of my life, Carter." He heard his own words and shook his head, smiling ruefully. "Christ, I think I answered my own question."

She shot him a quizzical look and leaned forward, pouring herself more wine.

"My family was really the center of my life." He ground the heels of his hands into his eyes and made himself go on. "I cared about my work and I believed in what I did. It was important. But they were why it mattered."

"I'm sorry." Her whispered condolence hung heavy between them.

"Long time ago." He let his hands drop, mustered a tiny smile for her. "And that world's gone. SG-1 is the center of my life now. And Sarah. To this day. When I go through the 'Gate I want to make HER world safer. And I want to do it with you there beside me."

Sam thought about that, mulling it over. He could see the wheels spinning in her head and was damn sure the wine hadn't slowed them down at all. "That's not a wife," she finally said. "The woman beside you when we walk through the 'Gate isn't a lover."

"No." He smiled a little more widely. "She's smart and funny and she's got a great ass, but she's a comrade. A brother in arms."

"Sexist pig." She grinned at him, then plastered a prissy expression on her face. "Just because my reproductive organs are on the inside!"

"Well I'm not gonna call you a sister in arms! That sounds . . . that's obscene!" Jack laughed, relaxing back against the couch and suddenly feeling wonder, and no desire at all. "I love you. I want you at my back and at my side and I trust you with my life. Major."

Sam smiled back softly. "I tried to imagine it once. You retired and home, fishing or golfing or whatever it is you do when you're not being YOU, being the Colonel. And it felt like a joke, me going through the 'Gate and coming home to my nice, tame man. That's not you."

"I can beat that." Jack saluted with his bottle, one upping her. "I thought about you in a nice lecturer's job at the Academy, teaching kids to run rings around some poor bastard of a commanding officer then coming home and making my dinner after a hard day out shooting Goa'uld. And you were wearing pearls."

"Pearls?" She scrunched up her face. "Please tell me you didn't put me in high heels."

"On no. Just the pearls."

"Ah. Right. And nothing else . . ." She had blushed bright pink but it might have been the wine. "You know that's bullshit. I love the field teams."

"Yeah." He smiled gently. "Yeah, I know. Tell the truth, I couldn't quite picture you right in the pearls. I kept getting the face wrong. When I think of you, it's always in khaki with that big grin like you've found the secret of the universe and you're dying to tell someone about it. Or else in that blue dress."

"Oh my GOD! That thing was hideous!" She spluttered to a stop when he couldn't keep from laughing out loud anymore, rolling her eyes and sticking her tongue out at him. "Just you wait. Somewhere there's a loincloth with your name on it. And I hope it's baby blue, just like that dress."

"You are so damn insubordinate when you're drunk."

"I'm not drunk. I've only had . . ." She picked up the bottle and shook the inch or so left in the bottom. "I'm drunk."

He picked up his empties and carried them out to the kitchen. Walking back in he moved to stand behind where she sat on the couch, looking fondly down at her. "Sam, I know it would never work, but just once, could I . . ." He let the words trail off, not knowing how to ask permission.

She heard the question though, and nodded. "Yeah. Come here."

He leaned in close, past the back of the couch, and wrapped his arms around her sides, behind her back, drawing her up and close and gently closing his lips over hers. It was a long, soft kiss, deep and lingering. He let his tongue play over her lips, let hers touch his teeth, stroked his fingertips down her spine and felt her hands play across his ribs. It lasted forever and was over too soon and he'd never kissed anyone goodbye like that before, and hoped like hell he'd never do so again.

She rose to her feet, watching him, melancholy joy on her face. "I love you too, Sir."

"I'd better go."

The melancholy look melted, and the Sam Carter he knew looked at him with her usual skeptical good cheer. "I don't think so. I counted, what, four beers that went down you?"

"I'm a guy. We're used to the stuff."

"You're drunk and you're staying the night."

Both of them paused at her words, glancing towards her bedroom then back to each other's eyes. Jack fished a quarter from his pocket. "Flip you for the bed?"

"I'm drunk, not stupid." She yawned hugely, ruffling her hands through her hair in a gesture that wasn't nervous at all. "You pull the futon out. I'll get you some sheets."

He watched her walk off, listened to the homey sound of a woman humming under her breath, rummaging in closets, padding back on her stocking feet. And took the sheets and blanket when she handed them to him. "Good night, Carter. Sleep tight."

She lingered a moment, fingertips touching his, then pulled her hands back and settled into the easy, instinctive stance of an air force lifer. "You too. Sleep well. Sir."


End file.
